Nathan Honour

Jiminy Christmas

Sean King

English

Silently, I tiptoe through the flowerbed - taking extreme care to not damage the tulips. I pass by the window and see her, she doesn’t see me. I continue to the willow tree and carefully hide myself amongst the canopy of its draping branches and reach for the binoculars.

In her delicate, dainty yellow linen, she nestles-- slim legs curled, small back leaning against an adjacent willow, and a fragile pinky shoved up a petite nostril. I stifled a gasp when the finger shot out, and her auburn, feathered eyes seemed to force existence to the mass.

I’d never seen such a large nostril extraction. It was bulbous, slimy, and greenish-yellow. She carefully examined it, turning her finger. Then she smiled. I kid you not, the mass opened an eye and blinked at her. She giggled.

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